


All princes dream of being kings

by isasolan



Series: Arafinwë [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor talks to Finarfin during the Unrest of the Noldor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All princes dream of being kings

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from tumblr with minor edits.  
> Arafinwë = Finarfin

Melkor is not handsome by Valar standards.

He does not have the majesty of Manwë, or the gruff beauty of Aulë, or the roaring violence of Ulmo. He is not fair of face, yet something in his bearing is awe-inspiring. His long, unbraided hair and the cloak around his shoulders are dark like the desolate regions of the North. He seems on the edge of dissolving into shadows with every nervous (nervous?) movement of his hands, as if he were made of Nothing and this body were a nuisance rather than a garment. Fascinating.

“What do you say, my Prince?” the Vala asks eagerly, expectantly, his lips grey and thin.

Arafinwë realises with some panic that he has not been paying any attention to what Melkor was saying. The Vala’s voice was pleasing, flattering, a soft golden whisper that would have enchanted anyone… but he was talking about jewels and smithing and crafting. The kind of conversation that bores Arafinwë to tears.

“Forgive me, Mighty One. What did you say? My thoughts fled elsewhere.”

It is very brief - flashes of lightening barely altering the Vala’s face - but Arafinwë notices it anyway. Surprise, disappointment and then contempt. He would feel ashamed, had he not grown up receiving that same glance from his family and from everyone in court who realised that the youngest prince had no interest in crafting. Instead, he smiles his sweetest smile, vaguely apologetic but unabashed.

“Of course.” Melkor's voice is terrifyingly charming when he understands his mistake. “You are not like _them_. You are different. Nobler. Wiser, even.”

That startles Arafinwë. Praise rarely comes after people see he is barely Ñoldo.

“Lesser,” he says flatly. He has never deluded himself. He is not about to do it now, not even when mighty, intriguing Melkor leans so close to him that he feels his knees quiver. _What is this_.

“No. Better. In fact, I find you quite fascinating, noble-prince.”

Arafinwë shakes his head and takes a step back, away from the thick web he knows the Vala is deftly threading for him. And that’s disturbing, isn’t it. Valar should not be like this. When he was younger, perhaps, he would have welcomed the attention, lonely and lost as he was. But it no longer matters. He has all he ever needed in Alqualondë. It does not hurt to be unlike his brothers when he has a place where he is loved.

“Nay, Mighty One. You mistake me for what I am not. Look at me.” He opens his hands in defeat. “You will find nothing interesting about me. What could you possibly find fascinating in a vaguely Ñoldorin prince, golden-haired like a Vanya, who dwells among the Teleri?”

“Precisely that, Arafinwë,” Melkor says in a pleasing whisper. “Precisely that. You are more powerful than you realise. You could rule all three realms effortlessly. Ingwë is aloof and inflexible, with no understanding of the other two kindred. You would make a gentler king than him. And a wiser king than your hot-headed brothers. And a better king than your boorish father-in-law who laughs and sails like a simple mariner.”

Laughing and sailing like a simple mariner is what Arafinwë loves most about Olwë. He notices with alarm that Melkor has insulted two kings, and has dismissed his own father as if his throne were for his sons’ taking.

“Yet I have no desire to be a king,” he says, his voice so clear that it vibrates in the stifling air that envelops the Vala.

“Do you not? All princes dream of being kings.”

“Not me.” Arafinwë shrugs. Reading his scrolls on the beach with Eärwen in his arms is the epitome of happiness. He needs no crown on his head for this. Why is that so alien to everyone?

Melkor stares at him, stares, stares, reaches deep into him. The grip on his mind is dark and hideous, terribly intrusive. Arafinwë recoils, shrinks, tries desperately to raise figurative walls in his mind to shield himself from the Vala. He loses foot and falls to his knees.

When he recovers, the Vala is looking down at him with disgust. “You were right, I was mistaken about you. You are weak and unworthy, like the useless Teleri. Small wonder you are a prince among them.”

Arafinwë rests back on the floor to catch his breath. The cold tiles against his back are strangely soothing. He lets out a bitter laugh. “No more flattery, I suppose, now that you saw I will not be your plaything?”

Melkor gathers his long cloak around himself in an angry gesture. “I will no longer waste my time. But beware! Small love for you has the proud son of Míriel. Now he has become great, and he has your father in his hand. It will not be long before he drives you forth from Túna!”

“All the better! That is not my home.” Home became Alqualondë with the waves and the swans when he pledged himself to his wife.

“And what of your children’s?”

To this Arafinwë has nothing to answer. His children do love Tirion and would hate to be kept away from it. He bites his lip.

Melkor makes a condescending gesture. “You feeble-minded fool. You could be so mighty, if you only wanted. ”

“I don’t want to be mighty.”

But the Dark Vala is already gone.


End file.
